Like Antipater, I had seen enough of that desolate, melancholy place. I was glad when the wagon finally arrived to carry us back to the inn at Lechaeum.
* * *
Antipater and I ate an early dinner. Before we headed to bed, we made arrangements to be taken the next morning to the port of Cenchrea on the opposite side of the isthmus, where the wagon driver was sure we could hire a small vessel to take us as far as Piraeus, the port of Athens. Just as I laid my head on the pillow, I heard Tullius’s party arrive downstairs, talking loudly and laughing. I feared their carousing would keep me up, but as soon as I shut my eyes I fell asleep.
I woke at dawn. Nightmares clung to me like a shroud. What had I been dreaming about? Witches and curses, no doubt, but my head was such a muddle I couldn’t remember. I regretted having consumed so much wine the night before-then remembered that I had drunk only a single cup of watered wine with my dinner. Nearby, Antipater continued to snore.
I rose from the bed, feeling a bit unsteady, and unlatched the simple lock on the door. I made my way down the stairs, wondering if Gnaeus or Ismene would be stirring yet. My mouth was parched and I craved water.
I reached the foot of the stairs, crossed the small vestibule, and stepped into the tavern. What I saw bewildered me at first-my mind could make no sense of it. Then I staggered backward, retching and clutching my stomach.
The room was a scene of utter carnage. Bodies lay in heaps, covered with blood. Among them I saw Titus Tullius. His head was thrown back, his eyes and mouth wide open, his limbs twisted. His throat had been cut. The front of his tunic was so soaked with blood that no trace of its original color remained.
Even as a spectator at gladiator games, I had never seen so much death in one place. Suppressing my nausea, I counted the bodies. There were twelve. The entire party of Romans lay dead on the tavern floor. Every one of them had his throat cut.
I ran upstairs to wake Antipater. He clung to sleep, but finally I was able to rouse him. He seemed confused and unsteady on his feet, as I had been after waking. By the time we went downstairs, the innkeeper was up. He stood in the tavern, gaping at the slaughter and shaking his head.
“It’s like a battlefield,” he whispered.
“Great Zeus!” cried Antipater. “They’ve all been murdered. Gordianus, did you hear anything last night?”
“I slept like a stone.”
“So did I. But how could the noise have failed to wake us? There must have been a struggle. Surely these men cried out.”
I frowned. “And yet, I see no signs of a fight. No benches overturned, nothing broken-and no weapons drawn. It’s as if they submitted to what was done to them.”
“Or were taken by surprise,” said Antipater. “Who was here last night, Gnaeus?”
“Only these men, no one else.”
“No soldiers from the garrison?”
The innkeeper shook his head.
“What about your serving woman?”
“Ismene was here, of course.”
“Where is she now?” said Antipater.
“I don’t know. At night she goes home to a little hut on the outskirts of town. But she’s an early riser. She’s usually in the tavern before I get up.”
“Perhaps something’s happened to her,” said Antipater.
“Or perhaps she’s fled,” I said. “You don’t think Ismene could have-”
Gnaeus snorted. “If you think Ismene played some part in this, you’re mad. Why would she want to harm these men? Why would anyone have done this?”
I thought of the way Tullius had talked about the destruction of Corinth, disparaging its people and blaming them for their own demise. Antipater had been offended by his remarks. Whom else had Tullius offended, here at the tavern or elsewhere? Had the ghosts of Corinth themselves been stirred to retribution by his slanders? Horrified by the inexplicable slaughter, my imagination ran wild.
Antipater thought of a simpler motive. “Perhaps they were robbed.”
Gnaeus ran upstairs and returned a few moments later. “Their rooms appear to be untouched. No one’s taken their things.” He shook his head. “The garrison commander will have to be told. I’ll go to him myself.”
Not caring to remain in a room full of corpses, Antipater and I waited in the street outside until the innkeeper returned. He was followed by a troop of armed soldiers marching in formation. The dogs yelped and scattered at their approach. Among the men I recognized Marcus and his superstitious friend Lucius. At their head was a silver-haired officer with a weak chin and a patrician bearing.
The officer took a good look at Antipater and me. “You two are witnesses?”
“I found the bodies,” I said. “But we didn’t witness anything.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Quintus Menenius, commander of the garrison here at Lechaeum. And who are you?”
“I’m Gordianus of Rome. This is my old tutor, Zoticus. We’ve just come from the Games at Olympia. We were going to cross the isthmus this morning and catch a ship over at Cenchrea-”
“Not today, you won’t. Show me these bodies, Centurion Gnaeus,” he said, paying the innkeeper the courtesy of using his old title. “And you two, come along. I may have more questions for you.”
Quintus Menenius had surely witnessed bloodier spectacles in his years of military service, but when he saw the carnage in the tavern he drew a sharp breath and shuddered.
“All these men were your guests here at the inn, Centurion Gnaeus?”
“Yes.”
“Were they robbed?”
“Their rooms appear to be untouched. I don’t know about their persons.”
“Lucius! Marcus! Examine the bodies. See if you find any coin purses.”
Moving from corpse to corpse, the two soldiers found small money bags on each, all apparently intact.
The commander furrowed his brow. “No robbery? Then why were they killed? And how was it done, without a struggle?” He shook his head. “Put the coin purses back where you found them, men. These are Roman citizens. There will have to be a scrupulous inventory of each victim’s property-for the inquest.” He uttered the final word with a tone of dread, and sighed, as if weary already of the mountain of reports he would be obliged to file.
Stuffing a coin purse back where he had found it, Lucius suddenly drew back.
“What do you see, soldier?” said Menenius.
At the same moment, from the corner of my eye, I noticed Marcus; he, too, was returning a coin purse, this one to the body of Titus Tullius-but did I see him remove an object from the little leather bag? I wasn’t sure, and no one else seemed to notice. Then I was distracted, for Lucius, having previously drawn back, now cautiously reached for something beneath the body at his feet, then snatched back his hand as if scalded.
“By Hercules, man, what is it?” Stepping over corpses, Menenius stooped down and pulled a thin, flat object from beneath the body. It was a lead tablet such as I had seen in the witch’s den.
Menenius heard me gasp. He gave me a sharp look, then returned his attention to the tablet, squinting at the letters scraped into the lead. With a snort, he abruptly crossed the room and shoved the tablet into my hands. “Here, you have young eyes-and you seem to know what this is. Read it aloud.”
I scanned the words. Hackles rose on my neck. “I’m not sure I should.”
“Read it!”
I took a deep breath. “‘Ananke, I call on you. Moira, I call on you. Egyptian Ufer of the Mighty Name, I call on you. Strike down these impious Romans! Rob them of their lives and let them join the dead whom they besmirch. Open their throats and let the blood of life pour out of them-’”
Lucius emitted a stifled shriek and began to shake. He looked as if he might bolt from the room. Only his commander’s glowering gaze held him in check.